


It all comes out in the wash

by middlemarch



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Frozen 2 - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Humor, Romance, Tumblr Prompt, handwashing, pandemic fic, sexy handwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She'd knocked. Really, she had. It was their en suite bathroom, the room he said was over-the-top and extravagant and aggressively tiled, so it wasn't exactly her fault that she'd effectively barged in on him.
Relationships: Anna & Elsa (Disney), Anna/Kristoff (Disney), Kristoff & Sven (Disney: Frozen)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	It all comes out in the wash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/gifts).



“What’re you—what’re you doing, Kristoff?” Anna asked. Her voice sounded queer, breathy and hollow and somehow simultaneously throaty and squeaky, which was a lot for a voice which was ordinarily a rather ordinary mezzo-soprano. She decided it was Kristoff’s fault even if that didn’t make a lot of sense. It made just enough sense because look at him!

“I’m washing my hands,” he said as if it were just an everyday occurrence, which technically it was, he wasn’t some filthy hermit from the mountains whose only friend was a reindeer. She reminded herself he was friends with Olaf and Mattias and Halima had quite the soft spot for Kristoff and Ivor, the shepherd-who-hated-mead, had been known to save Kristoff a seat at the second most popular tavern in Arendelle. So. Sven _wasn’t_ Kristoff’s only friend. This did nothing to address his assertion.

“Why are you half-naked?” she said, managing to sound, if not imperious, then at least not like a crow or a chipmunk. She was the Queen and he was Lord Tyholmen and he was emphatically not wearing a shirt. Well, he wasn’t wearing a shirt, a billowing linen shirt that only tied at the neck; whether he wasn’t wearing one emphatically would naturally be up for debate.

“I’m not emphatically-not-wearing one, Anna,” he replied. He knew her too well.

“But you don’t deny you’re not wearing a shirt. When you have a closet-full. I made that silk one and it took a long time because the stitches have to be really small,” Anna said. Words were coming out of her mouth which was nice, because really, her brain was mostly absorbed with Kristoff’s bare skin, his bare chest and forearms and his hands, which already looked pretty clean as he scrubbed them. His hair was too long and his eyes were still too stupidly golden-brown, which wasn’t even a color except for autumn leaves and really good sherry from Spania and the topaz parure she’d worn for their wedding and not the coronation.

“No. I got too dirty. The shirt was a dead loss. Not the one you made me,” he said, washing away as if his hands were the crusty depths of an old pot. She’d have called on the Five Spirits to give her succor except that was basically her sister and her issue was she was too attracted to her lawfully-wedded husband and wished she were the scrub-brush he was using so…vigorously. She shook her head, realizing dimly she had spent far too long reviewing infrastructure proposals. Even Kristoff was not _that_ attractive.

“What happened?”

“It was nothing, just a few of the little ones were following me, fell into the swamp at the edge of the woods,” he said.

“The cursed swamp with the surly garbage monster?” Elsa had some explaining to do, from pure, crystalline Ahtohallan, but most of the children of Arendelle had already learned to steer clear of the ordure pit and its creature. Evidently, not all of them.

“There’s not a cheery garbage monster,” Kristoff said. Now he was toweling himself dry like it was nothing, nothing at all, and his hands were clean and so well-made and bare and where was his ring?

“Where’s your wedding ring, Kristoff?”

“Anna, you know I always take it off when I take Sven north,” he said.

“I gave you that chain to wear it on,” she retorted. She was retorting a lot closer than when she’d first caught sight of him and he only improved on closer inspection. It would take a goblet-and-a-half of the mead Ivor loathed for her to reveal that she really appreciated the aesthetics of his dark golden chest hair and broad shoulders and the way his hipbones flare so subtly when his leather trews were riding low. Actually, maybe a goblet or maybe just Kristoff drying off his clean hands that smelled of her Provencale soap scented with lavender and jasmine. It had been the second bridge, the one to Northuldra, that had really done her in. Or it was true love. One of the two for sure.

“That tickles,” he said. As if he weren’t killing her dead. Killing. Her. Dead. With the image of the chain and his chest and the curls she liked to twirl her fingers through and then tug very gently until he made that sound. That Sound that she had no one to describe to because she wasn’t exactly lousy with lady friends even though she had a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting. Berit was promising, she had twinkly green eyes and a taste for Italian pastries, but they weren’t that close yet.

“Kristoff!” she complained. Called. Implored. Urged. Desired. She was losing the plot, verb-wise.

“Yes, my Anna?” he said, his clean hands at her waist, his arms around her, his chest against hers and his head ducked to he could murmur in her ear. He’d really mastered murmuring; perhaps there was a diplomatic use for that…

“You have to warn me next time,” Anna said, kissing his collar-bone, because it was within reach. 

“Warn you about what?”

“When you wash your hands,” she replied, her hands around his neck, fiddling with his gloriously overlong hair.

“Anna, I wash my hands every day. Multiple times. With soap,” he said. He didn’t sound offended but she was doing that thing he said he liked, liked a lot. She heard him take a breath before he spoke again and wondered if she needed to up her game a little. He wasn’t supposed to be able to speak again and yet, here he was, managing, “I wasn’t raised by wolves”

“Trolls though? Trolls wash?” she muttered. What a funny word _trolls_ was and how was the his skin so silky? How were his lips so hot and so perfect and sort-of psychic in knowing where she wanted them even before she did herself?

“Enough,” he said.

“Not yet. I want more,” she answered, even though that wasn’t what he’d meant.

“It was what I meant. And I’m more than happy to oblige. To…satisfy you, Anna.”

“Shut up before I start thanking the spirits. All of them. Including my granddame,” Anna said.

“Mmm,” her husband said. It might have been a grunt; he _had_ been raised by trolls. It wasn’t anything she would mention to any demigods and sprites, so they were good. So, so good.

**Author's Note:**

> I was concerned my first attempt at "sexy handwashing fic" was not sexy enough, so... I wrote this? I mean, I know I did, and I find it very amusing (and sexy) and I hope you do too.
> 
> For once, the title is just an expression, not a quotation.
> 
> The garbage monster is an homage to Fraggle Rock.


End file.
